“I wish persons would knock when they come into a room,” I whispered with soft significance, releasing her hand, and catching sight of the conscious blush with which she received the remark she had herself greeted me with not very long before.
My uncle here burst into a roar of laughter.
“Good friends, hey?” cried he; “now, then, we shall be happy!”
And running up to the piano, he strummed and sang:
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha! ha! the wooing o’t!
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha! ha! the wooing o’t;
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,